


A Light in the Dark

by morning_sun



Category: TMNT (2007), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (1990s Movies), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Turtles (TMNT), Aftermath of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, No Incest, No Turtlecest (TMNT), Raphael is an idiot, Romance, SO SORRY, Shameless Smut, Splinter Is Dead, Violence, description of tobacco use, description of violence, finished but undergoing heavy editing, how is that not already a tag, not beta read we die like men, old fic being updated, transferred from ffnet to its new home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28872843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_sun/pseuds/morning_sun
Summary: Raphael's entire world is falling apart. His father is dead, his brothers are spiraling each into despair, and every day feels more and more like it could be his last. Keeping his family afloat is taking all of his energy, and what Raphael does not need at the moment is another problem. But when Theresa Colden is nearly murdered in an alley, and Raphael takes her safety as his main priority, his life hurdles further into chaos.
Relationships: Michelangelo (TMNT)/Original Female Character(s), Raphael (TMNT)/Original Character(s), Raphael (TMNT)/Original Female Character(s), Raphael (TMNT)/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. The Specter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm waiting,
> 
> I haven't seen the ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very old fic that I finished aaaallll the way back in 2012. I'm going to go ahead and move it here, to it's new home, but each chapter is going to undergo HEAVY editing. I started this all the way back in 2007 and it may have been one of the most ~cringy~ things I have ever written (save perhaps the Transformers fic I wrote and deleted out of sheer embarrassment). That said, I absolutely adore this fandom, and I think that I can update and punch up this fic so that people can actually enjoy it. 
> 
> Please leave a review if the idea of me posting more chapters is anything you guys would want/like to see!

_I'm waiting,_

_I haven't seen the ghost_

_And am I really here at all?_

_I'm silent, I'm the moon_

_One eye open,_

_I'm waiting, waiting._

It was raining at the cemetery. The little tarp awning that had been erected in hopes of protecting the family and friends that surrounded the sleek casket was little more than fodder against the stinging rain that came down in biting cold sheets. It soaked the minister, who spoke in desolate tones- words that were lost in the violent swirling of the wind. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, a flash of lightning far off from the soggy plot of land.

_I swallowed a knife_

_I hold it in._

_And every single time I breathe,_

_I cut a bit of me._

_And it leaves my heart open._

Slowly, the casket was lowered into the ground and the mourners began to gradually scatter back to their cars. He couldn't tell from where he stood in the cover of shadow, but Michelangelo wondered if they were crying. He wondered if they missed her the way he did, if their lives had changed as much as his with her passing. Not that it matters. She was gone. _Nothing_ could change that.

_I feel you_

_My spectre yet unseen_

_Did you get the lilies I sent?_

_Did the violin that played_

_Make its way through the gauzy curtain?_

Michelangelo stood as part of four hooded figures. Together they watched as the grieving departed and the wet soil was covered over the casket. The tarp was taken down and the caretakers, soaked to the bone, quickly left in search of a dryer space. Uncaring of the fact that he was poorly disguised, uncaring that he could be seen easily by anyone who might be lingering, Mikey broke away from his brothers, ignoring Leonardo’s hiss of caution. He walked to the grave and dropped to his knees in front of the headstone, hands trembling. Water ran down his face as he stared miserably at the engraving.

**_Victoria Ann Chambers_ **

**_Daughter and Friend_ **

Dates preceded her name- stark black lettering against a sleek white marble. Carved roses and filigree surround her epitaph, and a fat cherub lay over the top of it all, a fat marble tear caught on its fat little cheek. Michelangelo wondered who had bought it, wondered who else out in the world had cared enough for her to pay for such an expense. If she were here, she’d be looking dubiously at the grave, teeth clenched in unmasked distaste. The thought made Mikey want to both laugh and sob. 

A figure came to stand behind him.

"Come on Mikey, let's go."

Donatello's voice was gentle and sad, his hands shaking nearly as violently as the wind- even as he squeezed Mikey's shoulder in an attempt at comfort.

“She’d hate this fucking thing,” he tells his brother, hating the way that he can’t tell the difference between tears and rain on his cheeks. Beside him Donny stiffens, then sighs. 

“We can’t stay here Mikey," he says. "Let's go home.”

Mikey thinks of ignoring him. Of just laying down until he dies of hypothermia or heartbreak- whichever comes first. But he hears the break in Donny’s own voice, hears the way he attempts to keep it from shattering in his own grief, and relents out of pity. 

"Love you," He whispers to the stone before him, hands ghosting over her name as though it might bring her closer to his fingertips. 

They all leave together, cold and sorrow ridden, but Mikey only makes it halfway before he collapses into Raphael's arms- he and Leo each hooking a hand over their shoulders and dragging him back to the lair. And with feeble each step, Michelangelo feels a piece of him die and return to the grave he's just left behind.

_Come find the place where the curtain is thin._

_Wink at the watchman,_

_And he'll let you in._

* * *

_Lyrics by Stephanie Dosen, A Lily for the Spectre_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said I hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review!!  
> (spelling errors will be fixed as I catch them - no beta reader)


	2. Starting Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was able to get out one last ear shattering scream before he grabbed her by the neck, and began to choke her.
> 
> She knew she was going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for descriptions of assault- both physical and sextual (though they are brief).  
> There is also mentions and descriptions of tobacco and drug use, and the consistent use of profanity.
> 
> I'll try to always give these sort of warnings in the notes before the chapter, but as an assurance to those who might need it- there will never be any sort of descriptions of rape. 
> 
> To additionally clarify (though it will be addressed in the next chapter) the turtle are adults. As in, in their mid-twenties.

**_5 Months Later…_ **

Raphael snapped his eyes open. He had been in a deep sleep, lucidly dreaming about something his mind tries and fails to remember. He scowled as he lay in his bed, the thin mattress pushing springs uncomfortably into his ribs, irritation and confusion at the forefront of his mind. It took him long moments to realize what had woken him, his mind sluggish and willing him back to sleep, but once he does he feels his heart drop. It had been a noise from the room next to his own, the thin walls of the long abandoned subway car unable to block out even the smallest of sounds- let alone the tossing and turning and pitiful mewling of his brother. 

Raphael let himself stay in his bed a few moments longer, hoping against hope that Mikey's nightmare would pass and he could get a full night's rest. But he hears it again, his brother's distressed whimper, and gives a belaboured sigh as he propels himself out of bed. He exits his room, running a hand over his tired face and wondering if he has time to make a cup of coffee for himself. As he stepped out onto the subway platform and quietly slid his door shut, he noticed Leonardo poking his head out of his own end compartment, looking questioningly down at him.

"I've got it." Raphael called out in a whisper, waving his arm as if to wave his brother off.

"Need anything?." Leo called back, and Raphael voices his request for coffee. Leo nods and pads quietly to the kitchen, leaving Raphael to enter Michelangelo’s room alone. He slides open the door and steps inside. Before him Michelangelo lays in his bed, the covers kicked off of him and his body curled into a fetal position. As Raphael watches him, he sees his brother kick as if a dog might in its sleep, whimpering again.

Raph grimaces, then goes to the edge of Mikey's bed and kneels down.

"Mikey." Raphael says firmly, placing a hand over his brother's forehead. Michelangelo's head tosses a little but he does not wake.

" _Michelangelo_ ," He said it a bit louder this time, and shook his brother's shoulder lightly. Michelangelo jerked awake then, sitting up stalk straight in his bed. He was breathing heavily, clearly panicked out of a nightmare.

" _Dad_!"

Raphael felt his heart stop in his chest. It wasn't as often that Mikey had dreams that involved Splinter. Usually they were of Victoria and the violence her death had caused. He stood, stepping into Michelangelo's line of sight and gripping his shoulder. 

"Mike, it's me," he said, in the most soothing voice he could muster. It was, after all, three o'clock in the morning.

It took Michelangelo a moment to gather his bearings, breathing heavily and staring uncomprehendingly at Raphael before he finally seemed to actually see him- as if a thick fog had cleared from his vision. He bristled then, shrugging off Raphaels grip and looking away- his expression sour. 

"I woke you up." 

It was more of a statement than a question, but Raphael nodded and awkwardly clasped his hands together- unsure what to do with them. Michelangelo sighed and pulled his knees to his chest, hugging them and laying his head between them. When he finally spoke, Raphael noticed that his voice was strained.

"I'm sorry man," he whispered.

Raphael shook his head even though Michelangelo was refusing to look at him. "It's okay bro," he said, eyes scanning around the dark room, wishing a hole would appear and swallow him up. Comforting any of his brothers had never been his forte, and as of late it seemed to be all he was doing.

"You're fine,” he reaffirmed again- trying to put aside the creeping awkwardness that was settling into his bones. “I just wanted to check on you."

Michelangelo spoke softly, and Raphael had to strain to hear his words. "I dreamed he was alive," he said in a thin voice.

Raphael waited a moment before he spoke, looking down at his brother with an unmasked expression of pity that went unseen.

“I have that dream too,” Raphael confesses, wondering if this admission is at all helpful. 

“Me too,” comes a voice, and it's Leonardo at the door, holding out a chipped mug of black coffee to Raphael and looking equally miserable. 

They all stay there in silence for a bit, Raphael sipping his coffee too early and hissing when it burns his tongue. 

Finally Michelangelo says, “Sorry I woke you guys up. I’ll try to be more quiet. I think I’m just getting a cold.”

Raphael and Leonardo share a look- both seeming to search the other for an unknown way to fix this problem. But it seems neither of them have an answer- because they both settle on giving the other a lost look.

“I’ll see if Amy can get you anything for it,” Raphael eventually offers.

Mikey nods, rubbing his face vigorously and laying back down, and Raphael uses his free hand to pull his comforter up around his shoulders. 

“It’ll be okay Mike,” he says, and when Michelangelo doesn't respond he frowns and leaves, Leonardo following him and sliding the door gently shut. 

The two brothers retreated to the kitchen, a little corner space that had at one point had just been part of the abandoned subways platform, but had been renovated over the years to hold a long row of mismatched counters and a dated electric stove and refrigerator. They sit at a round little wooden table- covered in scratches and nicks- neither of them speaking other than to sigh in exhaustion. 

Finally Leo says, his voice small and reedy, “You really think it’s all going to be okay?” 

Raphael wants to say no. He wants to tell his brother that the thought of their lives somehow turning right side up is nearly unfathomable. Too much had happened for any sense of normal to return, and none of them- least of all Raphael himself- knew how to navigate this situation. Splinter was gone- buried on April's farm- the dying leaves of the oak above him blanketing his grave. Victoria was gone too, her headstone still covered in fresh flowers, the upturned soil not yet bearing any new grass. Donatello barely left his room, Mikey smoked cigarettes like he needed them to function, and Leonardo walked around in a haze of grief and turmoil.

Instead Raphael responded as reassuringly as he could muster with, “We’re gonna be alright Leo.” 

He had to try and believe it, had to say the mantra to himself constantly. 

Still, Leo doesn't look uplifted by his words. If anything he seems more distressed than before. 

They sit once more in silence, Raphael sipping his coffee until there is no more. When Leo does leave, Raphael whispers the words again to the empty room. 

“We’re gonna be alright.” 

He wishes he believed them.

* * *

It was a clear sky and a bright sun that arrived for Amy Spence in the afternoon that followed. The woman, who was known to be reckless, pedaled her bike faster as she went down the incline of a hill, her arms outstretched as she weaved past traffic jams and construction. At the foot of the hill she slowed, her tires skidding as she turned a sharp right into a quiet alleyway. It was narrow and sat between two brick buildings, one a very run down two story pawn shop, and the other an apartment building that was dressed with broken windows and gang graffiti. Leaning the bike against the pawn shop and locking it to a pipe, Amy adjusted the heavy canvas backpack on her shoulders and bent down to the manhole, which had already been pushed open just a bit so it would be easier for her to pry up and open.

As she lowered herself down into the sewers, closing the manhole above her, she couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the intense stench.

"Disgusting," She mumbled, entering her boot clad feet onto the perpetually wet cobblestone.

"Geez Amy" said a voice from behind her, "you'd think after two years you would be used to the smell."

It was Donatello. She turned and smiled at him, "This place _is_ disgusting Donny, and you know it."

He gave her a shrug and said, “At least it isn't actual sewage. You’ve only got rain water to walk in.” His own rubber boots squelched beneath him as he walked to her and took the backpack from her shoulders, slinging it over his arm.

"Very considerate," She said, in a tone that clearly conveyed that she thought he had ulterior motives.

"You know I just need to protect our investment," He replied with a small grin that didn't reach his eyes. He reached out and poked her in the shoulder, urging her to walk, and Amy knocked away his arm with a sharp elbow and compiled.

It only took a few sloshing steps before Donatello finally said, his eye ridges quirking in mild surprise, "You've cut your hair."

Amy smiled up at him. She had, in fact, cut her long, black, waist length locks to a short spiky style that was above her ears. 

"It wanted to show off my new tattoo." She stated, turning so he could see the black writing that went across the back of her neck, just under her hairline. It read: _Anarchist_.

Donatello mouthed the word as he read it, then broke into a wide toothy grin.

"Awesome."

"I thought you'd like it."

They talked and bantered companionably the two and a half blocks it took to trudge to the deserted subway that the turtles called home. Eventually they took a turn and ascended an old stone set of stairs that took them out of the slowing flowing rain water. They both shook off the grime from their shoes before continuing forward, the low light of emergency signs illuminating their path.

As they turned a sharp left, Amy marveled over the fact that she even remembered the entrance was just here- behind a brick wall that in no way whatsoever alluded to the fact that there was a deserted subway- over a full block and a half of space- behind it. Donatello had admitted to her, very modestly, that he and his brothers had spent almost a month when they had first moved in constructing the secret entrance, helping further hide the lair from maintenance workers and enemies (though these days the latter was in short order). He pulled a lever that was cleverly designed to look like a water pipe, and the brick slid open to reveal the turtle's home.

As they entered the completely renovated subway, kicking off their boots and sanitizing their hands before going further, Amy was greeted with the immediate smells of sweat, the mustyness of sitting water, and incense that attempted to cover both. Michelangelo and Leonardo were to the right of the room, laying each on the two threadbare couches and watching the Giants lose in spectacular fashion on a large television (clever Donatello had somehow been able to install cable in the underground lair), and Raphael was to the left, sitting at the scratched and dented kitchen table eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

"That's gross, Raph." Amy commented on the moody turtle's signature sandwich, knowing what it was without even having to ask.

Raphael, who currently had his mouth full, gave her the up yours signal with his two hands, his expression never changing.

"Ah but I can give you the middle finger,” she said with a laugh, “because I have a middle finger," and proceeded to flip him off.

"Twit," Raphael mumbled, rolling his eyes and taking a large bite of his food.

Leo looked over, eyes circled in sleep deprivation. "You bring the groceries?"

Amy raised an eyebrow, "What a way to ask!"

Leo rolled his eyes, sitting up and reaching out a hand to easily catch the bookbag Donatello threw at him. He stood and made his way to the kitchen table, leaving Michelangelo on the couch to burrow deeper into his blankets, only acknowledging Amy with brief eye contact and a small wave.

Leo sets the bag on the table and begins to unpack it. The contents were typical for Amy’s grocery runs; two bags of cheap white bread and a sleeve of plain bagels, cans of beans and peaches and vegetables, boxes of uncooked pasta, and a few tins of good quality tea.

“We’re out of peanut butter,” Raphael tells her through a large bite, and Amy narrows her eyes at him as if to say _be happy with what I brought._

At the bottom of the bag was prescription-only medication, stolen from the clinic she worked at in Central Manhattan. As a registered nurse, it did not escape her that she could definitely be looking at some prison time if she was ever caught in the act of thievery. That said, it was still an underfunded enough facility that there were no cameras to catch her in the act. 

"If _any_ of you," She stated in a harsh tone, _"ever_ cause me to get caught, I expect you to be breaking me out of prison. I did not go to school just to get fired because Mikey needs a Z-Pak. Now pay up!”

"… Did you cut your hair?" Leonardo was squinting at her.

Any rolled her eyes. “All that and my haircut is your takeaway.”

Leo gives her a small smile and she relents and shows him her tattoo. 

“That’s permanent you know,” he quips, aware her arms are covered in them. “And you know we’d always find a way to help you if you ever got in trouble.” 

"Well that's great news. Just fyi- if you have to get me a new identity I’ve always liked the name Caroline.” She puts out her hand and opens and closes it rapidly. “ _Money please_. Come on, shell it out."

"Oh ha-ha." Leonardo heaved with a sigh, but he pulled a wallet from his utility belt and gave her a few twenties. "The things I do for family," he mumbled, exaggerating his exasperation when she snatched the bills from his fingertips.

“Thanks Amy!” Michelangelo calls over to her, and she waves him away with a gesture that seems to say _don't mention it._

“Seriously not a problem,” she tells him. “Just focus on getting better.” 

He only nods and burrows further under the blankets.

With the bills tucked away in her jacket pocket, Amy slides onto the kitchen chair across from Raph, who has just finished his sandwich and was sipping what looked to be green tea. 

"What's up jackass?" She asked as the other brothers dispersed, Donny retreating to his room and Leonado returning to Mikey with his cold medication and a bottle of water.

He gave her a deadpan stare at her use of language.

"Awww, Raphey poo, you know I love you. Don't be such a meanie." She reached across the table and shook his shoulder as she said it.

Raphael heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. "You know I'm worried about you, Amy," he told her pointedly.

Amy shook her head. "Listen you know I don't actually mind,” and she said it to him with more serious emphasis. “If I didn't want to do it, I wouldn't.” 

Raphael felt his jaw clench, "You could get into a lot of trouble," he said gravely.

She raised an eyebrow, "This isn't only about me, is it? I've been doing this for years now and you've never looked this upset. Hell, I got way more meds for you guys when Splinter was sick. This was just a Z-Pak and some antibiotics. Come on what's up, what's wrong?"

Raphael sighed again, looking furtively around to make sure he wasn't being overhead. "Mikey woke me up again last night," he said finally. "Look at him." He gestured with a head nod towards Michelangelo, who Amy could just see from her angle was still curled into himself on the couch, looking half dead as he peeled open his cold medication.

"Well… at least he's awake…"

Raphael raised an eye ridge at her.

Amy grimaced, "Okay, so he's not great. You guys are his brothers, do something!"

Raphael groaned and let his head drop onto his hands. "He won't listen to us, Amy. And when he ain’t shut in his room, he's a fuckin’ nightmare to be around. We had to threaten him to stop smokin’ in the lair- and I swear I still smell it in the bathroom. He’s havin’ nightmares all the time, he disappears for hours without tellin’ us where he is. I dunno what to do!” 

He was visibly upset, and Amy tried to sound soothing when she said, "He has more than one brother Raph. Make Leo and Donny help."

Raph looked at her for a long beat before answering.

"Donny hardly ever leaves his room. And Leo..."

They both look over at him as Raphael trails off. Amy thinks he looks just as half dead as Mikey, and reminds herself to make him take some cold medicine as well. 

“It’s been a year since Splinter died,” Amy says softly, lowering her voice in fear it might carry. “He should really be doing better than this.” 

She watches Raphael's face shift through an array of emotions, settling on the same lost look she’s seen him wear for the last year. 

“I feel like… I feel like I’m a bad son.” 

“What?! Why?!” 

His lips press together, and Amy wonders if the intense way he clears his throat is to push away tears. 

“I just… I miss him. I think about his everyday Amy. But I don’t feel like this. I don’t feel like my life is over and I ain’t got nothin’ to live for anymore. But I don’t know how to help all of them. I don’t know…” 

This time Amy is sure that he tails off because he might cry, which is perhaps the most alarming thing she’s seen since entering the lair. 

Raphael never cries. 

Amy reaches a hand across the table and grasps Raphael's. 

“I’ll help you, Raph. I promise.” 

He squeezes her hand firmly, his eyes easily conveying his gratitude as they begin to water, and he makes a show of letting go and pinching the corners of them and blaming allergies. 

“Why don’t you go for a walk or something,” Amy suggests kindly. 

Raphael nods, seeming glad to have an escape. He retrieves his trench coat and a bookbag of his own before he goes, and waves to Amy on his way out.

“I owe you Amy,” he tells her, and she waves her arm and shakes her head. 

“Get me dinner one night.” 

Raphael wags his eye ridges at her from the door as he slips on his boots. 

“It’s a date then.”

Amy scrunches her nose in disgust. 

“Disgusting.”

Raphael gives her a bark of a laugh and leaves, but Amy swears she hears him yell the word _date_ as the door slides closed. 

Once he’s gone she makes sure to have Leo take a Z-Pak of his own and forces both he and Mikey to chug down about a gallon of water a piece. She thinks about checking on Donny too, but decides she’s had enough stressful conversations for one day and instead begins putting away the groceries she brought that still lay on the table. 

She had meant what she said about helping them, but it worried her trying to think of a way to do so. She wasn’t exactly the sort of person with her own life together- she was estranged from her parents, lived with three other people in a seedy apartment in Queens, and spent entirely too much money on marijuana. Still, it was clear that Raphael was floundering, and though her work schedule was heavy, she knew she could spare her free time to helping get things in order. 

But with a worried look to Donatello's firmly shut door, and the two miserable faces of Leonardo and Michelangelo on the couch, Amy wondered if it was too late.

* * *

Theresa Colden walked briskly down the marble steps as she exited the courthouse, trying to keep pace with her bosses long angry strides. She kept her eyes averted from everyone she passed, her jaw clenching and unclenching in an attempt to hide her own rage. 

It wasn’t until they made it a block from the courthouse steps that Lawrence turned to her snarled, “Can you believe this shit?!” 

They’d stopped, and Theresa shook her head. 

“What are they even thinking?” 

From his pocket Lawrence had extracted a pack of menthols, and Theresa only momentarily hesitated before reaching out and taking one when he offered- her resolve to quit wavering under stress. 

_"Stupid fucking prosecutor_ ," she thought savagely, letting the inhale of nicotine hit the back of her throat and exhaling with an audibly sigh of annoyance. 

The look that their client had given her replayed in her memory, triggering a stab of pain to her heart and caused her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut for a moment. She had wanted, in that moment, to scream at the prosecutor that sat before her, wanted to screech at him until he listened to reason. She felt her face flush in fury as she remembered the events of the day, the red flame spreading down her neck and up her ears.

Usually, in her moments of anger and rage, Theresa was able to follow a simple breathing exercise that her father had taught her. It had been necessary because, back when she'd been in law school, she'd thought she would have to find another profession. She was quick to fall into anger, and this had hindered her in many ways. Public speaking would become a nearly impossible obstacle, emotions overriding her thoughts so that she stumbled and stuttered and, on one horrifying occasion, cried angry uncontrollable tears.

But it had been a long time since she had lost herself to anger. Good lawyers couldn't afford to become over emotional, weeping messes. Her father had taught her the breathing exercise, and time and practice had made her a cool and collected litigator. Today had been the first instance in years that her façade had wavered. 

Beside her Lawrence looked even worse, though. He was without question the most professional man she had ever met, and if he was having trouble keeping his anger in check, she knew she wasn't overreacting. 

“We’ll fix this,” he told her, repeating the information he’d just told their client. “They had no evidence to go ahead with indictment- they’re bluffing.”

But Theresa wondered if that was true. The prosecutor had seemed so sure of himself that moving forward to a Grand Jury was feasible, and while she knew much of these sorts of threats were little more than strategy, this felt like a checkmate in a game of chess. 

“He said they found a firearm,” Theresa reminded Lawrence, and in response he waived her off. 

“If they choose to move this forward they have to know there is no jury on the planet that would convict. We have over ten witnesses that say Rome was defending himself. And these aren't some dregs of society just popping out to save a friend- these are normal everyday people.” 

Theresa knew it was true, knew that what he was saying was fact, but she knew that when it came to the bare facts it wasn't as simple as all that, either. 

Their client, Rome Washington, was a young man who had been caught quite literally in the scenario of wrong place, wrong time. He’d been on a first date with a woman he had met through a dating app when the girl's ex had shown up to confront them. Words had turned into violence though, and what many witnesses attested to saw Rome defending himself on threat of his own life. An errant shot from a small pistol had hit the ex, and he had bled out in Rome’s arms. 

It had always been known that the pistol had belonged to the ex, who had been seen waving it around before he’d attacked Rome. But now- with a new gun having been somehow tied to the scene, the prosecutors were trying to paint a picture not of self defense, but of murder in a jealous rage. 

“Rome says the gun isn't his,” Theresa reminded Lawrence, and he nodded and took another drag of his cigarette. 

“I believe him,” he told her. “I wouldn’t normally say that. We see all kinds of people here lying all the time. But Rome’s a good kid. I don’t think he had a gun. We just gotta figure out where it came from.” 

They stood there finishing their cigarettes, word left unspoken on Rome and his family's ability to pay their firm for much longer. Theresa smoked hers to the filter with shaking hands, and then they walked together in silence the short way to their office. 

It was her first murder case, her limited experience still not allowing her to handle first class felonies on her own, seeing as she had only just graduated law school last year. It had been meant to only be a teaching experience from Lawrence, but now had turned into much more- a convoluted and compacted case made all the worse by an uncompassionate prosecutor who wanted to make a name for himself.

When they reached the office, both of them panting in anger, Lawrence turned to her and said, "You should take the rest of the day off."

Theresa narrowed her eyes at the man before her. “In what universe do you think I could just go home right now?” 

Lawrence paused before he nodded in ascension, obviously deeming the answer as expected. They walked into the building, whose doors read; _"The law offices of Shade, Shempski, and Hunt."_

Theresa was the only female attorney in a firm that consisted of herself, Lawrence Shade, Ethan Shempski, and Justin Hunt. Her father had at one time been the owner of this very building. But he had long since retired, selling the firm to Lawrence with the caveat that he hired Theresa once she had finished law school- her name to be added as partner within five years of hire. Then he and Theresa’s mother had made the move to Florida and spent their days on the beaches of Key West, blissfully unaware of their daughters' struggles. 

It was privilege, she knew, that had gotten her so far, and Theresa worked hard to try and shed the image of wealthy trust fund daughter that plagued her every waking moment. The looks of envy and disgust that money had gotten her so far. Nevermind that she’d graduated in the top three percent of her class. Nevermind that she’d never even had a choice about her profession, that she’d always been told she would walk in her fathers footsteps. She supposed she understood though. She was lucky that she was actually passionate about her job, was lucky that she had no financial burdens. 

Theresa walked towards the back of the building and into her own private office, the name plate reading _Theresa Colden_ , in bright brass. She smiled at it before she sat down at her desk and began to type, her fingers flying over the keyboard with quicksilver movements. 

Their client may have suffered a setback, may have to spend who knows how much longer in a crowded jail cell, but she would make sure that the justice system prevailed. And all the while she remembered to breathe deeply, pushing the words of the prosecutor and her mountain of anger away with each exhale.

* * *

It was many hours later when Justin Hunt gave a light tap on Theresa's already open door.

"Jesus Wolf," he began, using a nickname that many in the office had picked up. "Shade said he sent you home hours ago! It’s almost ten!"

Her head jerked up in surprise. She had been absorbed in a Westlaw handbook and hadn't heard him until he had spoken.

She marked her place and looked at him. He was handsome, tall and athletic with wavy blonde hair and clear hazel eyes. He was also an asshole, but Theresa conceded that it made him a better lawyer.

"I didn't realize it was this late." She said by way of answer. Justin gave a cocky smirk, his dimples giving him the illusion of charm.

"I could take you home…" He said, and it was the way he said it, with that suggestive arrogant smirk and the conceited upturn of his lips, that made her immediately say, " _No_ " in a sharp voice. She realized how flat and harsh her voice had sounded and quickly softened her tone.

"I mean, no. I'm going to walk home. I need the air."

He looked at her for a moment, as if he may protest, and then shrugged. 

"Whatever." He turned and left her, walking down the hall to his own office.

Theresa rolled her eyes. "Jackass," she muttered under her breath. She wondered why he was still here- knowing he didn’t usually keep late hours, but decided that she didn't care.

It was only a few minutes later that Theresa heard the back door close and realized she was the last one left in the small building, all attorneys, paralegals, and law clerks having finally left for the night, off to enjoy their weekend. She shuddered, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of being by herself in the eerie quiet of the office. Theresa gathered her shoulder bag and quickly shoved some of the documents she'd been working on into it. She seized her purse, jacket, and an umbrella, but as she stepped outside, locking the door behind her, she saw that it was neither rainy nor chilled. August was quickly ending, but summer weather was still prevailing.

Usually her walks home were peaceful, a time to reflect on the day's events. Tonight, however, was different. Today had not been a good one, and to add to her circling anxiety Justin had rattled her nerves. He was always so smug and overly confident, as though receiving his attention should be seen as some sort of blessing. She found herself wondering if there was even a real person under all his handsome looks.

Her apartment was only two blocks away, but as Theresa walked she found the silence that engulfed had quickly put her on edge. On most nights she tried to be aware of her surroundings, but tonight she felt off, tried to her bones and distraught by the day's events. The street was so unusually quiet, only the occasional passerby catching her attention, and long shadows cast on the ground from the intermittently dispersed street lamps. A light breeze cooled her face and caused her to shudder.

"I watch too many scary movies." She said under her breath, her tone reproachful. Nevertheless, she began looking over her shoulder in an attempt to stay aware of her surroundings, covertly clutching a bottle of mace she had retrieved from her bag.

She'd gone only half a block when she heard the footsteps behind her. She felt her heart begin to pump a bit faster, and chided herself for being so jumpy. It was a populated area after all; people could walk on the same sidewalk as her. Still, she activated the mace bottle and peeked over her shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat. There was a man, she couldn't see his face, but he was walking only a small ways behind her. He wore a gray sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over his head, keeping his face completely concealed. He was big, not fat, but muscular and tall. When he saw her look back at him, he picked up his pace. 

Theresa's heart beat faster, and she too began to move her feet more quickly. Her mind was racing, " _Oh God,"_ she thought. _"This_ **_has_ ** _to be all in my head. I **have** to be overreacting." _

She heard him, his footsteps echoing like drums in her head, approaching closer with every long stride. 

" _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."_

Her heart racing and sudden adrenaline causing her mind to reel into overdrive, Theresa ran.

Still, she was thinking that maybe she'd just imagined a scary, hulking man following her. That was until, with a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw that he too had started to run, and he was gaining on her. The adrenaline was pumping furiously now, and her feet carried her even faster, eyes scanning for anyone on the street that might help her. The heels she wore were preventing her from running as swiftly she could, but the pain in her feet came secondary to the fear that was racing through her body. She began to yell, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Help!" 

She could hear him behind her, his tennis shoes a much easier match against her Gucci sling backs. Panic was building up in her like bile and her brain stopped functioning completely. And then she did something that in retrospect was _very_ stupid. Her slow reacting common sense sent a signal to turn right, and she ran headlong into a deserted alley. As soon as she'd done it Theresa realized she'd made a momentous mistake. When she had made the sharp turn into the alleyway, which actually led to a side entrance of her apartment complex, she had been hoping to lose her pursuer long enough to lock herself into her second story dwelling and call 911.

That, however, didn't end up working the way she had planned. The dark alley was the perfect place for her pursuer to lose anyone who might have been able to afford her with help. She had barely gone five steps into the dark lane when she felt a jerk on her long tresses. The man had wrapped his fist around her honey blonde hair and pulled her hard into his chest. Theresa sucked in a breath to scream, but a hand reached up lightning fast to cover her mouth.

"Shut up" He hissed, in a frighteningly raspy and vaguely familiar voice. His hand was crushing into her face, and she could taste the salt and grime on his palm. The hand that had been used to pull her to him untangled from her hair and reached around to cup her breast. Her eyes widened in shock before she began to struggle, panic coursing through her body as she kicked out. His hand released her breast and he gave Theresa's ribs a hard jab with his fist. She knew that she felt something crack, and she tried to breathe in deeply through her nose as the air whooshed from her chest. Theresa felt his hand on her mouth loosen, and through the pain she took the opportunity to bite down hard, not releasing until she tasted blood. He let her go with a jerk, spitting profanities. She was able to get out one last ear shattering scream before he grabbed her by the neck, and began to choke her.

She knew she was going to die.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes it's a savior scenario from me. I'm a simple bitch. Leave a kudos and a comment to feed my smooth brain.


End file.
